Chapter 5
Everwhirl Hollow doesn’t look like a forgotten wasteland like it did when I first set foot on this place.
I’ve spent the last month and a small fortune getting it back to something resembling its former glory. The overgrown paths are now just artfully wild, the garden sculptures have been freed from their vine prisons, and the fountain actually has water instead of mosquito breeding grounds.
Today, this wild and woolly spooky space almost looks intentional with Halloween decorations scattered through the restored gardens and Morning Coffee & Chaos equipment everywhere.
The October morning threatens rain with clouds the color of old bruises.
The air is thick with competing scents—pumpkin spice churros from the nearby stand, cinnamon roll bread pudding that Savvy somehow produced at six in the morning, and maple apple crisp that’s making my mouth water despite having just eaten my body weight in breakfast.
The restored gardens provide a backdrop that’s both beautiful and slightly unhinged, which perfectly matches my life right now.
They’re putting powder on my nose, Fish muses from the makeup chair, which is really just a folding table with mirrors. I don’t need powder. I need boundaries.
It’s for the camera, Chip says, fully committed as someone fluffs his orange fur as if he’s about to host his own talk show. The Chip Show: All Treats, No Tricks. Am I glowing? I feel like I’m glowing. Wait—get my left side. No, my right side. Actually, circle me. I’m an experience.
You’re a situation, Fish says.
I’m a star, Chip corrects. There’s a difference.
Someone dabs Fish again, and her whiskers twitch. If she comes at me with that brush one more time, I’m going to pass out on purpose.
Cats don’t faint, Chip says.
I will learn, Fish yowls.
From Savvy’s side, Cupcake lifts her chin. Listen up, felines! It’s all about the angles. Chin down, eyes up. You need to give the camera something to work with.
Chip freezes mid-preen. Am I giving them something? I feel like I’m giving them something.
You look like you’re buffering, Fish says.
That’s mysterious, Chip huffs.
That’s concerning, Fish is quick to point out.
The makeup crew coos over them, completely unaware they’re being judged by their subjects. One young woman with pink hair keeps trying to put a bow on Fish, who looks ready to commit justified homicide.
“Welcome to Morning Coffee & Chaos!” Cooter’s voice booms across Everwhirl Hollow as the red light goes on.
His backward baseball hat sits at what he probably thinks is a sexy angle, but looks more like he got dressed in a wind tunnel.
He’s just your typical sixty-year-old going on sixteen.
“I’m Cooter Lovejoy, here with Clyde Janglewood, Crystal Wigglebottom, and our special guest host for the week—” He pauses long enough to glower at his ex.
“Author of the international bestseller that changed millions of lives, Just Do It, and showcasing her new book, My Husband’s a Cheater and Other Things I Posted for Clicks—Willow Lovejoy. ”
His lack of enthusiasm could have chilled a latte from across the set.
Willow gives a friendly wave at the camera as if she’s greeting a million old friends. “Thanks for having me! Although technically, Cooter, you never really had me. That was problem number forty-seven in our marriage!”
The crew laughs. Cooter doesn’t.
“And now,” Crystal chirps, her perkiness achieving levels that shouldn’t be legal before noon, “let’s meet Huckleberry Hollow’s famous feline mascots, Fish and Chip!
” Her equally perky blonde hair defies gravity, bouncing with each word, and she’s wearing a hot pink tweed jacket with a matching skirt that looks like Barbie went to business school.
Thick chocolate-brown boots complete the look—maybe the most sensible thing about her, which isn’t saying much considering she’s dating my ex-husband.
“I should probably hold one,” Clyde says, clearly not wanting to, but trying to look good for the cameras.
“Not me! I’m violently allergic to cats!” Crystal jerks back as if Fish and Chip are radioactive. “One whisker and I blow up like a balloon animal! My throat closes, we cut to commercial, and the next segment is a candlelight tribute! Nobody wants that kind of publicity!”
At least not two days in a row.
Which leaves Clyde with Chip while Cooter gets Fish. The look on my ex-husband’s face as thirty pounds of orange cat settles into his arms is worth the price of admission.
This menace smells like fear and hair gel, Chip announces. I don’t trust him. But his head looks comfortable.
Before anyone can stop him, Chip executes a maneuver that would make a circus acrobat jealous, scrambling up Clyde’s chest and onto his head, where he settles like a furry, purring hat.
“Get—it—off of me!” Clyde hisses through his made-for-TV smile.
“Aw, look how much he loves you!” Crystal coos, keeping a safe distance.
Chip kneads Clyde’s scalp with enthusiasm, and his purr is audible through the microphones. This is nice. Like a heated, angry cushion. And it vibrates with rage!
Fish, meanwhile, maintains her cool in Cooter’s arms, looking directly at the camera as if she’s hosting her own show. The Fish Report: Unimpressed and Unfiltered. At least this one knows how to hold a cat properly, she mewls. Minimal competence. How refreshing.
“This is better than my divorce proceedings!” Willow laughs with a look of genuine delight on her face. “At least cats are honest about their intentions. When they want to destroy your life, they do it to your face!”
“She’s not wrong,” I mutter.
“Chip looks good on Clyde,” Georgie points out, munching on what appears to be her third cinnamon roll.
I can’t blame her—Savvy has turned them into weapons of mass deliciousness.
Each roll is a fluffy spiral of buttery dough loaded with cinnamon and brown sugar, topped with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting that’s still slightly warm and melting into all the right places.
They’re huge, indecent, and absolutely worth every last calorie. I’ve been eating them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and my only regret is that I can’t eat them faster.
Bizzy nods. “Chip really covers that weird hair transplant ridge on Clyde’s scalp.”
“This is definitely going in the Christmas card,” Ree says with her phone out and capturing every moment.
Bizzy is taking photos from every angle as well, and she’s practically bursting with pride. “These cats are STARS! Look at them working those cameras!”
“Chippy has more personality than all of my exes combined,” Savvy adds, then pauses. “Actually, that’s not saying much. A moldy dishrag has more charisma than the men I’ve wasted time with.”
Even Delora, standing off to the side with her clipboard, can’t seem to resist the cinnamon rolls. She takes a bite, and her face briefly betrays her—annoyed it’s that good, thrilled that it is.
“This is unprofessional,” she mutters through a mouthful of cinnamon and joy, immediately taking another bite.
“These cinnamon rolls could bring about world peace,” Georgie declares.
“Or cause wars,” Ree counters. “People would definitely fight over the last one.”
“Or cut in line and risk injury to life and limb,” I say. “I’ve seen both happen.”
On camera, Clyde is trying to continue the segment while Chip reorganizes his hair into what can only be described as abstract art. “The park has—OW—made significant improvements—PLEASE STOP—to guest safety and—GET OFF MY HEAD!”
“And that’s our cue for commercial!” Cooter shouts with desperation. “We’ll be right back with more Morning Coffee & Chaos! Emphasis on the chaos.”
The second the red light dies, Clyde explodes.
“JOSIE!” His voice carries across the hollow like a foghorn. “GET YOUR DEMON CAT OFF MY HEAD!”
Chip responds by purring louder and somehow spreading out more, like a furry pancake with claws.
“I think he likes you!” I call back as sweet as can be. “That’s his happy dance!”
I’m never leaving, Chip announces. This is my throne now. I am the king of angry head mountain.
Clyde does what can only be described as an interpretive dance of rage, spinning and ducking, trying to dislodge Chip, who digs in like his furry life depends on it. Finally, possibly bored or possibly victorious, Chip launches himself into my arms with the grace of a flying potato.
The crowd goes wild with a riotous applause screams of delight as if our team just won the Super Bowl. Or Orange Bowl, as it were.
Fish leaps delicately from Cooter’s arms to Bizzy’s with considerably more dignity.
Unacceptable, Fish says. Across the board. Or at least it would have been if it were anyone but Josie’s ex.
That was incredible! Chip counters. Did you see his face? I had full control. At one point, I steered him.
You assaulted a man on live television, Fish points out.
I improved the segment, Chip insists, and I happen to agree with him.
You used his ear as leverage! Fish yowls, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or offended. Probably both.
Efficient leverage.
Fish blinks slowly. I need better colleagues.
You need better instincts, Chip says. That was peak entertainment.
“We need to have a word!” Clyde storms over, his hair standing in eight different directions. “This is assault! Battery! Emotional terrorism! That cat is a menace to society!”
“Chip is a treasure,” I defend, scratching him behind his ears the way he deserves.
“He attacked me on live television! My reputation—”
“Was already in the toilet,” Georgie finishes for him. “The cat actually made you more sympathetic. You should pen him a thank-you note and send treats.”
“I should sue!” Clyde’s face is approaching a lethal shade of purple. “This whole park is a death trap! The cats are psychotic! The food probably violates health codes! And don’t even get me started on the murder rate—”
A shadow falls over us, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
“I agree.”
We all turn to find Dexter standing there, and he’s not wearing his friendly hot boyfriend face.
This is Detective Drake, complete with badge and that expression that makes guilty people confess to things they didn’t even do.
I’d like to confess a few things. In a dark room. With his lips pressed to mine.
But I digress.
“I’d like a word with both of you,” he continues, his voice professionally neutral in a way that makes my stomach drop.
Uh-oh, Chip mewls. Detective Dreamboat looks serious. He looks like he knows things.
Someone is in trouble, Fish adds with what sounds like satisfaction. Is it bad that I hope it’s Clyde?
Willow, Crystal, and Cooter watch from nearby, none of them bothering to hide their interest. And the storm that’s been threatening all morning finally decides to make good on its promise as the first fat raindrops start to fall.
Nothing good ever comes from Detective Dreamboat using his official voice. Especially when he’s looking at me like I might be a suspect.
The sky is darkening, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles as if the universe is clearing its throat before delivering bad news.
This is better than those soap operas at the pet groomer, Cupcake points out.
She’s not wrong.
But something tells me I won’t like how this episode ends.